The Whisper
by Goldenbrook15
Summary: It started as a whisper, rumors about a teenage spy stalking the underground. There was little proof that it was real . . . and then the big criminal organizations started falling one by one, each claiming to have been unprepared for a spy in their midst, a spy who wore the face of youth like a mask even though, inside, he clearly wasn't one.
1. Whisper

**The Whisper**

 **I'm going to write this story a little different this time. Some of these events might not be in order but I hope you will still like it. I wrote a different story like this and a lot of people like it so I hope it isn't too bad in this.**

 **Oh, this** ** _will_** **stay a one shot, just to clarify.**

 _It started as a whisper, rumors about a teenage spy stalking the underground. There was little proof that it was real . . . and then the big criminal organizations started falling one by one, each claiming to have been unprepared for a spy in their midst, a spy who wore the face of youth like a mask even though, inside, he clearly wasn't one._

 **0~o~0**

 _It started out as a whisper . . ._

Jonathan sighed as he leaned over his drink, glancing out at the rain in disgust, "Weather has something against us doesn't it, Sam," he muttered angrily.

Sam snorted into his coffee. Black hair contrasted with his pail skin and his eyes were baggy from lack of sleep, "Bad weather is better than facing _him."_

"Him?" Jonathan blinked, looking at his long time friend with confusion.

"You haven't heard?" Sam glanced up and then looked back down into his darkly colored drink, "I shouldn't be surprised. Few dark talk about him at all."

"Who is he?" Jonathan asked, intrigued by his friends ominous tone, "Why would people be so afraid to talk about him in the first place anyway? If they have enough power then usually a lot of people know about them."

Sam sneered slightly, "Not this time," thunder boomed outside and he glanced around suspiciously before leaning in, "I only heard about it six months ago, you know, when that Stormbreaker incident happened. Didn't really believe it at first . . ." he trailed off, lost in his thoughts.

Jonathan lifted one eyebrow; "Yes?" his friend did this a lot lately.

Sam's eyes snapped back into focus and locked onto his with unflinching directness, "It was a boy. Everyone assumed that a professional spy was the one to take down Darrius Sayle, but it was _just a boy_."

"What?" Jonathan frowned, wondering what his friend was raving about. There were no child spies, it was illegal, and there were definitely no child spies who could take down Darrius Sayle who had made a name for himself as one of the criminal masterminds.

Sam snorted again, "Darrius was found afterward with a bullet through the back of his head and all traces of the spy erased."

Jonathan felt a shiver of fear go up his spine. A child. A child working for the government that was willing to _kill._

This did not bode well for them.

 _. . . about boy no older than fourteen . . ._

"Is there any information on the new project, Smith?" a short, balding man asked as he gazed out across the scarred table. His associates, if they could be called that, all shook their heads and the man frowned. For a moment it looked like he was going to yell, based on how red he was turning, but after a long breath calmed.

"You know the price if I don't get that information, Smith. I don't give idle threats; do what you are supposed to and you wont get hurt," the balding man said, a malicious look entering his eyes as he looked at what seemed to be a new recruit, "You have until the next meeting, Smith, I will expect it then, yes?"

"Y-yes, Mr. Diamond," the twenty-five year old stammered, knuckles white from clutching the sides of his uncomfortable, straight backed chair.

"Good," the balding man nodded and stood up, "Meeting adjourned."

The men and two woman filed out of the small, inconspicuous room until only the balding was left. He glanced back into the room with a frown, feeling as if something was off, but he couldn't place what. Everything was exactly as it was before and nothing was misplaced. The room seemed, just as it had when he entered, untouched.

Shaking off his suspicions as nothing he closed the door and locked it.

Seconds later a dark clad figure dropped down from the ceiling and landed silently on the concrete floor. Not even the dust seemed to be disturbed by his presence. Standing swiftly the figure moved forward toward the small filing cabinet in the corner where all of the files were kept under lock.

Without pausing he pulled out a small wire, hidden by his hand, and slipped it into the lock. A second later there was a hiss and the lock clicked open.

The filing cabinet was pulled open and the files inside quickly sorted through, several of them finding their places in the small bag hanging from his side. The whole process took less than five minutes before the cabinet was closed and locked again.

The figure stepped back, glancing at the door, and for the first time a little light spread across his features.

He was young, too young to ever be considered a threat, just a kid. His face had that youthful glow to it that made adults underestimate him. His eyes, cold and hard as they were, did not fit his face. They were the eyes of a soldier, dark, tried and weary but still pushing on. Blond hair flowed around his head like waves in the ocean and his eyes were a deep chocolate color.

Walking back to where he had come from the figure pulled on something unseen and a rope dropped down from the ceiling. In the dim lighting only a darker patch on the roof could be seen, something often overlooked. The figure scrambled up the rope and completely disappeared through the hole in the roof. Seconds later the hole was covered, leaving no trace except for the missing files that someone had been there.

Like a whisper he had come, and like a whisper he had left.

No one was safe from someone they couldn't see.

 _He seemed to come from no where, they said . . ._

"You heard about it?"

"What?"

"There's someone out there to get us, and he's a _kid_."

"That's not possible. The government wouldn't allow it."

"Those in the government are the ones employing him."

"How do we know who he is?"

". . . We don't."

The criminal grapevine, or gossip, was spreading like wild fire. No one could believe what they were hearing.

SCORPIA had fallen, and they had fallen hard. Scattered into the wind there were few of the original council members left. Julia Rothman, their main leader, was killed. Crushed by the weight of her own hot air balloon.

Though it may look like it, they knew it was not an accident. Already the reports were spreading. The boy wasn't just a spy, in fact they were wondering if he had ever been a spy in the first place or if he was just paid by the spy services to do their work.

Either way, the news was disturbing.

SCORPIA had tried to train him as one of their own.

He had advanced at incredible speeds. Within weeks of picking up a gun he was able to shoot several killing blows to a group of people in one minute without stopping. They had sent him on several of their legendary survival training tasks in a group; only he came back alive. It was almost as if he had already been trained for that kind of life before he had ever come across SCORPIA.

The evidence pointed toward something more than a spy, something far more dangerous. A spy would hold back and wait for back up. They disliked killing and avoided it as much as they could. It was a weakness often exploited but . . .

The boy was an assassin.

Which meant that he wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty.

 _. . . but he was no ordinary boy . . ._

"Stop right there!" guns pointed at the boy's back as he hit and dead end and was forced to turn around and face his pursuers.

His youthful face was filled with fear but they knew they could not fall into his trap. Too many before them had. Just because he was young didn't mean that he wasn't dangerous.

Still, some of the men felt their hands waver slightly, horrified with the thought of killing someone so young.

It was their hesitance that cost them.

"What are you going to do with me?" the boy asked, eyes flickering over all of them, mentally singling out the immediate threats.

The leader sneered, "We are going to take you to our superiors and then wash our hands of you, boy. You've been more trouble than you are worth to get in the first place."

"I do that sometimes," the boy answered, his face and innocent voice changing in an instant, "I won't be coming with you though, I don't feel like it at the moment."

Seemingly from thin air a gun appeared in the kids hands and five shots rang through the air. Five men went down. The three remaining took one look at their fallen comrades and the boy and froze, unsure of what to do.

With a swift movement the gun in the boy's hand was reloaded and pointed in their direction but didn't immediately end their lives. "I kill only out of necessity," His accent had changed abruptly, unnerving them even more, and his face and grown hard and unfeeling, "If you want to live, I suggest that you _run_."

Again, whispers spread.

 _One by one the great criminal masterminds fell at his hand . . ._

The sniper shifted nervously as he looked down at the school he was watching. His target was blond and sat in the third row, fifth seat back. He had been told to make it quick because the longer he waited the more likely for failure his mission would be.

For a second he wondered why he was targeting a kid but pushed it out of his mind. Money was money, no mater the job, though he had to wonder who the kid had angered for such a large price to be over his head.

Oh well, he thought, looking through the scope as he distantly heard the bell ring. It doesn't mater now. The kid will be dead anyway, whether by my hand or any other hired sniper.

He waited for several minutes as the kids settled down, but his target never showed up. The sniper frowned, wondering if the kid was late or something. Maybe he had sat in a different seat? Unlikely, but some teens did like to do that at times.

Eyes quickly scanning the other students his frown deepened. The kid was supposed to be there . . .

"Looking for someone?"

Startled the sniper spun around and his eyes widened.

The last thing he saw was the angry expression on his targets face and the cold, grey metal of a hand gun pointed between his eyes before everything went black.

The police would find the body of the sniper a week later. Or at least what remained of it after he had been shot in the head and dumped into a river.

They never found out who had killed him and his gun was never recovered.

 _. . . but still he was just a whisper, a terror in the night that they could put no face to except that of a child . . ._

A young man came running into the office, out of breath as he faced his superior.

"Who was it this time?" the other man asked, his eyes tired. Over the last several months his companion organizations had fallen, collapsed from within as their ranks were infiltrated by one person. It was maddening. Even now the worm could be hiding among them, mask so unassuming that they would never know who it was until the moment that he struck.

"Snakehead, Boss. The new came just an hour ago."

Lucas closed his eyes and dismissed the youth. Snakehead was the name of the organization that had once been SCORPIA. It seemed that no matter where they hid the boy always found them.

There was no where to run that he couldn't find them. He had hunted them over the glob, had lived through a bullet though the heart and attacks on his family, and had never given up chase even when everything seemed impossible. He was like a bloodhound to the fox, unwavering in its search for its prey.

He had no doubt that they were next. In fact, they boy was probably already among them. A snake in the body of youth, preparing to strike at just the right moment.

From nowhere he had come and where he would go next was unsure, but there was one thing that was unmistaken.

The boy was nothing more than a whisper. A whisper which had quickly become a roar.

 _What was his name?_

For every beam of light, there must be a shadow.

Alex felt fresh tears run down his cheeks as he knelt in front of a grave he was very familiar with.

 _Jack Starbright_

She had been his housekeeper since he was little, but she had also been the only mother figure that he had ever had. Her death had been his fault. Him and his family had a record of getting anyone they got close to killed.

Rider luck, he liked to call it. For all he cared it could have been a curse. He lived because he _refused_ to turn over and die. His stubbornness had saved him many times, but that didn't mean that it could save everyone.

"I'm sorry," he murmured softly as he set the roses gently at the base of the grave, "I'm sorry that I wasn't able to save you."

He closed his eyes, feeling the tears slid down his cheeks in wet, salty trails. One got caught on the corner of his lip but he made no move to wipe it off. He wanted the world to see his pain, see what it had put him through.

Alex had never wanted this life. He had never signed up to be a spy like so many others. He had never wanted to be a killer.

And yet here he was, standing in front of a grave, one of many deaths he had caused, whether by his hand or by the hand of his enemies.

If the blood on his hands could be seen by all they would be permanently stained red.

A single tear darkened the stone as it fell.

"I'm sorry for what I've become."

 _Alex Rider._

 **0~o~0**

 **Do you like it? It's a bit different, yes, but I've heard that some people really like this style of writing.**

 **If you really liked it or just want to complain than please do. The review button is just below.**


	2. You Won't Get Away With This

**You Won't Get Away With This**

 _Continuation of_ The Whisper

 **K. Had an idea for a continuation for this and wrote it in two hours. I hope you enjoy.**

 _They all say the same thing . . ._

He hated what they had turned him into; he hated what he had been forced to do, all because of his family legacy.

All the lives he had taken, all the people he had been ordered to kill. Was it all for nothing? The world was corrupt, and no matter how much of the corrupt mold that he hacked off, whether on the orders of the government or by his own means, it always grew back. Sometimes he wondered if he should just let everything go, let the rot destroy itself instead of saving the world again and again.

What was the point? To honor his parents? His uncle? He didn't really know anymore. The world had become twisted in his eyes. He had never been normal, and now he knew he never would be. _They_ had made sure of that. He could never go back to what he had been.

It wasn't the terrorist organizations or the governments that used him that he hated, it was the monster they had made him become. They did what they had thought was right; sacrificing the one too save the many.

He just wished that he wasn't the one they had chosen.

His parents lost their lives to this. His uncle was killed on a mission. Sometimes he wished for death as well.

So long as there was breath in his body, however, he knew that he wouldn't die; he _couldn't_ die. They had tried, many times.

He had the scars to prove it.

Every scar had its own tale to tell. The bullet scar over his chest? Assassination attempt when he stepped out of the 'bank'. The jagged knife wound in his side? A training exercise . . . in resisting torture. The raised pattern on his hand? An acidic spider web . . . don't ask.

Almost all of them had come from his 'work'. The ones that hadn't were from his early years when his uncle was training him for this life. Even if he could escape his past, escape his life, the scars would always remind him of what he had lost.

The other kids at school had started to notice the difference in him as well. They whispered about him being a drug dealer or maybe a gang member. To tell the truth, those options would be better then the one he has, the one he will never be able to escape.

Sometimes he wondered if death would be the better option.

 _. . . You won't get away with it . . ._

"You won't get away with this!" Ranko Vanala snarled as he glared at the shadowed figure on the other side of the room. His companions, who were tied up with him, started at him as if he were insane to speak out.

The shadowed figure snorted as he fiddled with something on the table, "What makes you say that?"

Ranko scowled. He couldn't believe the audacity of this man. First he comes in without permission (what happened to the guards at the door anyway?), dares to attack them as well as tie them up (most of the members in the group were martial artists), and now was just standing there with his back turned, ignoring them. He may be new to the criminal underground, but even he knew that something like this would not go unpunished.

"Enjoy freedom while you have it," Ranko said arrogantly, knowing that the man would be caught and destroyed by the bosses for doing something like this, "There's no way you will get out of this."

The man turned around and for the first time Ranko saw what he had in his hand. The gun flashed as it spun between long pail fingers, and then settled firmly in the white palm, pointed straight at his head, "Who says I already haven't?"

The gunshot echoed throughout the warehouse. Ranko's companions felt no sorrow over the newbe, nor did they try to save him.

Those who challenged this man – no, boy – never made it out alive.

 _Such an interesting choice of words. In cartoons it is normally the captured superhero or victim who says it . . ._

Tulip Jones, head of MI6, the spy organization that had ruined his life, was heading straight for him.

Alex groaned near silently, glaring down at the cup of hot chocolate clutched in his white knuckled grip. What did she want this time? Did she need an assassin? Maybe his stealth skills were required. There were those rumors about another terrorist organization trying to rise to power. No matter, they were weak and not nearly strong enough to bother with.

"Alex Rider," Tulip said civilly, her posture stiff as she glanced around the café in clear disgust. An unmarked, manila envelop was clutched tightly in her hand.

Alex smirked inwardly as he realized that he had been forced to make the trip all the way out to him when he had refused to go with her agents.

"Jones," he replied in the same tone of voice, sipping loudly out of his cup to annoy her.

Tulip twitched slightly, her eyes flickering around and out the window for a moment.

 _Ah, can't leave home without the guards,_ Alex thought ruefully, having already spotted all of the agents that were trying to blend in and failing.

Tulip took a deep, though to normal people unnoticeable, breath and slid into the seat across from him. "We need your help, Alex," She said, lowering her voice slightly so that it would be unheard by everyone else besides him.

Alex snorted, glaring down at his drink and hunching his shoulders, "Yah, I kind of figured that when you came down here instead of forcing me up into your little office. Trying to get on my good side, right?" he chuckled softly, though it held no humor.

Tulip's face remained impassive and Alex silently cursed the 'spy face', as he had dubbed it. He had one too, come to think of it, but he didn't use it often. Manufactured emotions were so much more fun to work with, and it tended to throw your enemies off.

Was it sad that he saw everyone around him as potential enemies?

The older woman didn't say anything as she slid the folder across the table to him. Alex hesitated in opening it, but one look at her steal cold eyes told him that she wasn't leaving until he did. Sighing softly he flipped the cover over and began to read the information inside.

 **Agent Hanks**

 **Full Name: Jeremy Hanks**

 **Mother: Sarah Isabel Hanks (Reese)**

 **Father: Nigel Frank Hanks**

 **Occupation: Agent 56 of MI6**

 **Description:**

 **Hair Color: Dirty Blond**

 **Eye Color: Blue**

 **Height: 5 ft. 10 in.**

 **Habits: Has an uncontrollable twitch in left eyebrow and tends to pick at buttons that he is wearing on his shirts or jackets.**

 **Current Status: Traitor.**

 **Last Seen: London, England.**

Alex raised an eyebrow and whistled lowly, "An Agent, huh? What did he do for you to set me on him?"

Tulip grit her teeth slightly, "He sold important information to several terrorist organizations and currently has in his possession several files pertaining to some of our more . . . secret missions."

Alex felt the corner of his lip twitch in amusement, "Those files wouldn't have anything to do with some of the missions that I have been on, do they?"

The silence that answered him was enough for him to smirk and close the file. "I'll look into it."

Tulip nodded sharply, "That's all I ask," she got up and turned to leave, but paused at the last moment and glanced back at him, "If I wanted to find a body where would I look?"

The dark, slightly insane smile that stretch across his face did nothing to change her decision, "I hear that the bottom of the river is a good place to look."

Tulip almost regretted setting Rider on the traitor. Almost.

By the time Rider was done with the turncoat he was going to wish he had turned himself in. The boy was _very_ protective of his files and mission information.

That was probably why so few people had found out about him, actually. No one dared to look at his reports.

 _. . . You won't get away with it . . ._

Two days after giving the file over to Alex a mutated body was fished out of the bottom of the river. He was vaguely recognized as Jeremy Hanks, and even then they had to take DNA samples to conform it.

No trace of his murderer was ever found and his case was filed next too all of the other 'unsolved' murders.

 _. . . But the thing is, I already have._

 **If there are any ideas for another one-shot based on this one feel free to send me the ideas. I'm already considering doing another one from MI6's point of view.**

 **Hope you enjoyed!**


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